Wishing Well
by Myrime
Summary: Sometimes he wishes they were dead.


Wishing Well

_"Do dead men dream?"  
_ (Game of Thrones)

* * *

Sometimes he thinks he could have loved them more if they had died for him.

Seeing them like they were now, his father staring at the too-white wall, drooling on his hospital gown and his mother rocking back and forth, singing half-remembered lullabies, that doesn't make him feel love. Distress, hate, helplessness. But never love.

He endures the visits and smiles for their sakes but sometimes he just can't help but wish they were dead. So he wouldn't have to come here anymore, wouldn't have to see them broken and compare himself to what they once have been.

But then his father smiles and his mother hugs him and he's glad he has at least something to hold onto.

* * *

Sometimes his mother seems to remember him, her eyes sparkling, her mouth split by a too wide smile.

_Oh my sweet,_ she would say and take his hand, holding it tightly as if to make sure he wouldn't leave her again.

_Such a sweet boy, always visiting us_, and then she'd look at his Gran, squinting as if she was thinking very hard. _Where is _my_ little boy? Why does he never come?_

And she doesn't remember at all.

* * *

Sometimes his father seems to only pretend, suddenly jumping up, pacing around, searching for the wand his forgotten son now carries, a look of pure purpose on his face.

And then, just as sudden, he'll be lost again, standing in the middle of the room, staring at the wall, waiting for a nurse to lead him back to his bed.

And he doesn't pretend at all.

* * *

Sometimes he wants to snap at the nurses, ask them to stop belittling his _grown up_ parents, his _auror_ parents who had survived a war.

But then he'd see his father hug Nurse Alison for getting him his favourite pudding, and his mom dance with Healer Davon until all the spinning makes her fall down, giggling.

They aren't grown up, they aren't aurors, hell, they couldn't even survive on their own. They just are, for better or for worse.

And he is glad someone can smile at them with honesty, because his own smiles are strained and brittle – and sometimes not true at all.

* * *

Sometimes he wishes Bellatrix Lestrange hadn't died, so she could taunt him and curse him and he could have someone to hate, to direct his anger at.

Sometimes he wishes he had killed her himself, for once doing something for his parents memory, closing the circle.

Sometimes he wishes she could have seen her kingdom fall and vanish and be forgotten along with the Dark Lord.

But she hadn't, and most of the time he is glad she's gone, because that means one nightmare less to haunt him.

* * *

Sometimes he dreams Harry had died that fateful night, so they wouldn't have come for his parents for answers.

Sometimes he dreams they had, but had picked him instead, tortured _him_, killed _him_. And that would have been so much better, for who would have missed weak little Neville Longbottom?

(Sometimes he sees just that in his Gran's eyes, wishing she could swap her good-for-nothing grandchild for her perfect son.)

Sometimes he wishes the war wasn't over, so he wouldn't be the only one still losing.

Sometimes he has nightmares. Sometimes he has glimpses of what could have been. And that is a thousand times worse.

* * *

Sometimes he hates his Gran for lifting the Fidelius and allowing them out of hiding, allowing them to be a target and then not being there to keep them save.

Sometimes he hates her for always comparing him to his as-good-as-dead father, for being disappointed in everything he does, for not believing in him.

Sometimes he hates her for not being enough, not being what he needed.

But then he sees the grief surrounding her, cloaking her body in frailty and drawing deep lines on her face.

And then he remembers that the two of them are all that is left.

* * *

Sometimes he wishes they had loved him more, had the strength to stay sane for him, to come back to him.

Sometimes he blames them for all the things he couldn't be, for they weren't there, despite being _alive_.

Sometimes he wishes he wouldn't love them, at all, so he wouldn't hurt, wouldn't search for any sign of recognition in the not-quite-dead eyes.

Most of the time, Neville loves his parents, insane and not-really-there, but sometimes he wishes they were dead, so all of this could finally be over.

* * *

(Frank is the first to go. He simply stops breathing, his eyes still staring at the too-white wall.

Neville cries.

And it isn't better at all.)


End file.
